The Five Senses by Peter Fuller

The airman was now awake, and his thoughts were racing.  A door near him opened and closed and he tried to turn his head towards the sound, but the action sent shafts of searing pain through his body.  When the agony had receded, he became fearfully aware that he was unable to see anything.  He raised his free arm to his face and traced his fingers over the bandages that were wrapped closely over his head, across his eyes, around his exposed nose and lips and tied surgically under his chin.

He heard the door open and close again and a man’s voice said, “Hello old chap, I’m glad to see that you are moving at last”.  It was a plummy voice, an officer’s voice and the sort of voice he always found it difficult to take orders from.

“Where am I?” the airman said softly.

“Back in Blighty old boy, in an RAF hospital in York to be precise.  Your Lancaster crashed on its way home and you were fished unconscious out of the North Sea.  It’s a miracle that you are still alive.

“Water, water, please”. Whispered the airman.

“Yes, of course old chap.  There’s a sink right here and I’ll run you some”. 

A woman’s voice cut in.  “Not from the sink, the water is extremely hard hereabouts and bad for a man in his condition.  I’ll get some softer water from the stores”.  The door opened and closed again.

The airman was confused, because he had spent his childhood near the town of Ripon where it was always accepted that Yorkshire water was not just the softest but also the “best”.  These thoughts were interrupted, however, by the officer speaking in a conspiratorial fashion.

“Whilst Bertha Bedpan is getting you water would you mind if I light-up a cigarette?”  The airman heard the match rasp across the box and soon afterwards smelled a whiff of sharp tobacco smoke.  He breathed it in and recognised the brand as French Gauloises and he began to crave his favourite brand, Wild Woodbines.  Just a single draw on one now would be heaven!

The officer was speaking again.  “I’ve got to ask you some questions, just to see what you remember and to find out if you are still compos mentis”.  He laughed at his own lame joke.  “It’s all just routine stuff, like the group you are with, your squadron, its armaments, and planes, and just one or two of your squad’s call signs, et cetera, and that sort of thing.  It’s all information that you should be able to remember.  I agree that it’s a bit of an imposition on you in your present condition, but as you will appreciate the War Office must be satisfied”.

The officer’s words were suddenly drowned out by the sounds of aircraft flying low over the hospital and throttling back to land.  The officer looked up at the ceiling, “Wellingtons and Sterlings returning from an overnight mission.” he explained casually whilst looking back at his clipboard.  The airman sighed audibly, for he understood everything now: the water, the cigarette, and the planes.

“Right, let’s get started”, chirped the officer. “What is the name of your Squadron Leader?”

“They were Heinkel and Dornier bombers.” the airman said firmly.  “I know their engine sounds very well.  My name is Peter Harrington and my Air Force number is 60615.  As a prisoner of war that is the only information I am required to provide you”.

There was a long pause before the officer spoke again and when he did he touched the airman’s arm gently as a sign of empathy, one flyer to another.  “Yes Peter, of course”.  His chair scraped the floor as he stood up.  “I wish you well.” he said.  “Auf wiedersehen mein Freund”.